Water in a Red Glass
by S.K. Millz
Summary: Don't read this.


Eyes open. Standing here pissing overboard, dick in one hand, half-drained can of Mountain Dew in the other. Entering, exiting, simultaneously. Believe me, it's all very amusing.

Like I've been saying since we raised anchor in Boston… _at its core _it's a dumb fucking idea. High school on a cruise ship. You'd think they'd factor all the "off-campus" distractions into their grading rubric. I mean—straight Ds? Why not grade on a curve you sadistic fucking kike?

Lights flick on in the cabin overhead. Yellow lights, pale little diamonds at first, coming down the steps. Shake shake shake, zip zip zip. Wipe the offending hand down the front of my tshirt, drain the rest of the can and fling it to the pearly black water below.

Low shoes chacking on thin metal stairs. "Zack? Is that you down there?"

"I don't want any."

"Very funny," Cody bypassing the last two steps, hopping clear over the railing.

"What's up?"

"Nothing. What're you doing down here?"

"Nothing. Where's Bailey?"

"I dunno. In her room. Why?"

"Just wondering."

Thick foamy waves suck warmly against the hull of the ship. It's rare, you know… these days at least… a Bailey-less Cody… a Cody-less Bailey. They cut a neat couple—or a neat pair, whichever's the more accurate—that much I'll admit. Two brownnosing fruitcakes swapping overtures. I won't flatter myself by pretending those notebooks full of stilted poetry stuffed into the floor of Cody's sock drawer were for me. Heh. Who's he kiddin? He can't write like me.

"Wanna do something?"

Picking absentmindedly at a long pink scab on his elbow, "Like what?"

"I dunno. Hit up the bar."

"In the mood for a smoothie?"

"No. Not really."

At once we're on our way to the head of the ship… up over the slippery skydeck where three foreign custodians scowl and push their mops and scuttle aside hurriedly to let us pass… through the muted dining hall, all empty save for a muttering old couple exchanging looks of disdain, as if expecting the ship to capsize at any moment… down a brief corridor, past a row of potted plants, across the front lobby…

London's sitting on the bar, nails drumming thinly against the counter, sipping a strawberry milkshake through a pink curly straw. "What's up Zack?"

Grab the stool next to her and swivel a slow three-sixty. "My cholesterol."

"Heh—that's a middle-age joke," she grins. "You're an old man trapped in a teenager's body."

Cody orders one of those smoothies.

Rake a hand through my hair and sit up straight. "Seen my sunglasses anywhere London?"

"Sunglasses? No." Licking her straw clean, "But I can loan you a pair if you want."

"No thanks."

"Speaking of losing things." She gulps down the last of her milkshake. "Any idea where Bailey's been hanging out tonight?"

Steal a glance at my brother and slowly shake my head. "No idea."

"Well. She's not in my room." London disrobing a stick of gum, apparently worried about her breath, "Haven't spoken to her since dinner."

"I'll call her," Cody sighs, rifling through his shortspockets. He's got one of those everything-phones now… a million worthless apps… normally he's glued to the thing, eyes always averted, rolled down, never _in the moment._ He thumbs the already fingerprint-smeared screen and lifts the phone to his ear, shaking the hair out of his eyes.

My backpocket begins to sing.

I yank the girly pink phone from the seat of my jeans and flick it open. "Incoming call: C. Martin," reads the waxywhite screen. Rihanna, "Umbrella," is the ringtone.

Cody almost chokes on his drink. "Is that her phone?"

"I don't know."

"Zack—is that Bailey's phone?" And with just a hint of jealousy, _"What're you doing with Bailey's phone?"_

"I don't know."

London pops her gum, suddenly looking quite bored.

Cody rising up out of his chair, "Zack—"

"I don't know."

"_How could you not know?"_

London snickers. "He doesn't know."

Ignoring her, Cody snatches the phone from my grip and glares down at the readout as if awaiting an explanation. Ringer finally cuts off… "here for infinityyyy—"

"We're going to your room," he snarls, slapping Bailey's phone back into my frozen, outstretched palm and tugging me off the barstool.

London's eyes light up. "I'm coming too!" she beams, shuffling along after us.

Cody's not hearing me. He's convinced we're polar, perennial opposites, so I must be lying, sneaking around behind his back. Fighting an uphill battle. Doesn't matter that my interest in Bailey Pickett is _just sit right here and _nonexistent, that at best she's _face the wall and_ not my type, that _I'll try _out of pure respect for my brother _not to hurt you_ I'd never intentionally _too badly_ trespass on his territory.

"You're overreacting."

"Overreacting?" He won't let go of my arm.

"She probably slipped it into my pocket during dinner or something…"

"Why would she do that Zack?" Planting a finger squarely in my chest, "And _don't_ say you don't know."

No answer. Haven't got one. Not yet.

Together we retrace our steps back to midship, London prancing along behind us, thoroughly enjoying the scene, the drama, practically out of breath by the time we arrive at my doorstep; bulletin board decorated with a slutty picture of Scarlet Johansson—the sluttiest I could get my hands on: bluegreen eyes leveled beneath an arch of golden hair, unbuttoned sweater draped about her shoulders, her nude chest, edging the corners of her tits, a thin line of green sketched below her waist, striped socks scaled high on bronze thighs… the Gatekeeper; and for whatever reason I'm worried more intensely about what she isn't guarding.

Cody nudges me toward the door. Swipe my keycard and push on through. Hit the lights.

Nothing. Just as I left it. Bed unmade, PlayStation paused, still running, dirty socks poking like white fabric tongues from every half-slotted deskdrawer…

"Satisfied?"

He stomps past me, throws back the bedsheets, peeks under the dresser, under the desk, examines every unread book on every shelf, rummages through the closet… then he's pacing, eyes circling wildly, suddenly self-aware—damage control, damage control…

"What were you expecting to find?" I ask, hands glued to my hips. "Used condoms? Edible panties?"

"Excuse me for being suspicious. It wouldn't be the first time you rained on my parade."

Heh. "You mean that French girl? That was ages ago."

Frustrated, he leans back against the wall and pouts and folds his arms, studying his shoetops. "So where's Bailey?"

"Probably wondering where _we_ are."

"Alright," he mutters, thumbing his nose. "I overreacted. Big deal. You still haven't explained how that phone wound up in your pocket."

"Maybe," London swoops in, waggling a finger, "it's some kind of message! Open it up!"

"A message? For him?"

"It's worth a shot." I slide open the phone and click my way to photos while London and Cody fall in line behind me. Nothing new, nothing new… family, dog, cat, family, sunset, family, friends, making faces, making faces…

"Go to video! Go to video!" London hovering in my ear, whispering something, barely audible.

A ten-second clip of Bailey goofing off at cheerleading practice; a little girl attempting to shovel six saltine crackers into her mouth in under sixty seconds; a whole minute of some fat kid in crochet pants dancing to "Thriller" in the middle of an empty street, punctuated by loud, frequent stabs of high-pitched laughter…

And the next one has me in it.

And I'm smiling weirdly into the camera for what feels like an eternity, sporting sharp black sunglasses. With a loud clatter the camera jerks down and out of focus and when the picture readjusts we're staring blithely into my room, the entire image cocked aslant. Then I set the phone down on the dressertop and stalk back into frame and

_Just sit right here baby girl Right here Good Good  
Good Now turn around and face the wall Thats it You dont trust me  
enough bitch All youve got  
to do is sit still and keep your mouth shut and  
take a chill pill and thisll all blow over  
You wont have to worry about anything ever again  
apart from what Im gonna do to your little friend Cody Now just follow my instructions  
and Ill try my darndest not to  
hurt  
you too too  
badly  
my  
dear little Bailey  
Little little  
Bailey…_

She's either unconscious or in a deep deep trance when I heave her up onto the bed and unbutton her shirt and calmly begin flaying her open with a steakknife from the cafeteria. The knife travels smoothly down her forehead, splitting her eyes and nose, rendering her lips four separate useless mandibles, opening the veins of her throat, guiding those long bloody tributaries down the nape of her neck and along her chest and along the curves of her chest, then cutting a thin wiry incision the length of her torso and pulling the skin apart in great pink sheets through which the light passes dull and yellow. The video rolls on and by the time I'm finished my hands and face are dripping a deep neon red and there isn't very much left of her at all. With palpable zeal I turn and fingerpaint an enormous bold Z on the wall behind her, then tiptoe back across the room to shut the camera off.

Blood thunders in my temples. London's got Cody by the ear, by the pressurepoint there, his eyes glazed and distant, legs trembling like noodles. She slips me a pair of sunglasses and I drop the phone and put them on.

"Let's make this quick," she mutters, kicking Cody's legs out from under him, readying a chair in the middle of the room.

I grab a fistful of his hair and drag him to the window. He still looks dazed. I wonder if he knows what's coming. Without thinking I palm the corner of his skull and slam his head sidelong against the inches-thick glass.

Once…

Twice…

Three times.

Cracked glass, a huge white cobweb spread with blood and strands of long blond hair.

Then I wrap my arms around his waist and drag him to the chair. His eyes flutter. Saliva swings from the corner of his lip. London hands me an aluminum Little League bat as I round the back of the chair, surveying the open wound in his head. I'll make it opener.

First swing cracks his skull from ear to crown, sends him toppling to the floor, a slow trickle of blood spitting from his head. I set him upright, tilt his chin downward to observe the damage. Dent's widened, deepened to a square black hole. Beyond that nothing but dark energy. He's still breathing—somehow—slow, labored, infrequent gasps, gripping at uncooperative air.

"My turn," London and her happy face, dropping her purse. She draws up beside him and thumbs through his hair before plunging one thin jewelried hand into the dark pit below. As she digs her swimming chocolate-brown eyes trace the ceiling. She bites her lower lip.

"Smartypants," emerging with a fistful of red goop. She shovels it into her mouth, chewing animatedly; it looks tough. Next batch she offers me a chunk… a small one… a little wedge of little brother's mind… Taste is hard to describe… a rare, meaty, sugarless jelly… a stale flavor, like sausage casing… and that bitter blood-taste that coats your lips and dries the back of your throat, that just won't leave.

"Want some more?" London clutching two big handfuls.

"No thanks."

"This is all normal, you know… nothing to be ashamed of." Raising one big glob to her mouth and squeezing the juice out onto her tongue. "Daddy does it all the time. Although with him it's usually strangers." A thick purple vein dangles from her fist; she slurps it up like spaghetti. "You absorb their energy… that's what Daddy said… after Bohemian Grove last summer. What do you think?"

"I think you should do whatever makes you happy."

"I think you're right."

By now Cody's all-the-way dead, and London, with a beard of blood exclaims, _"So much better than Bailey's." _Then, with an eager smirk, "Go get me another one."

"Who?"

"Anyone. I'll clean up." She stops me on my way to the door. "And Zack… don't forget…" pointing with a single red finger, _"you're my buddy."_

Heh. Fuck you. Literally. I would _fuck you._

Woody's at the snackbar, and I'm still wearing my sunglasses when I commandeer the stool next to him. He waves a fat sticky hand in front of my face and sez something like, "Hey Zack. Where's your brother?"

"I dunno. Who cares." Quick—tell him a story to bide some time and get him laughing… "So, Woody… back when I was a little kid, my dad—and I don't actually remember any of this happening, but he told me about it, and I read about it… in the _Climax Crescent, _which has a readership of about two thousand people—my dad, whenever he would have sex with hookers he would always use a condom—and this was back before it was really fashionable to use protection, so his friends would typically laugh at him and ridicule him for it, and call him names—but see, my dad, he had this rare condition, so whenever he would climax his output was always, like, a _thousand times _more than the average male, so he had to have these special, extra large condoms made up specifically for him… and sometimes, after he got done having sex with hookers, he liked to tie his condom off like a balloon and flip it upside-down and just sit there and marvel at it… and sometimes—I don't know why he did this—he would fill it up with mercury and bromine and stuff me inside of it and walk into the grocery store swinging it around over his head like a lasso yelling, 'Look at my son, the kid who likes to take baths in used condoms filled with mercury and bromine!'—and then he would slam it down on the shopping cart until it broke open and push me around the store yelling, 'Look at my son! Look at my son!'—so everyone could see me lying there crying covered with cum and blood and heavy metals until they kicked us out of the store or until the cops showed up and arrested him…"

"That's some story," Woody sorta-kinda-halfway smiling.

"Boy, you're not kidding." Give him a pat on the shoulder. "Hey, if you're not doing anything, wanna come back to my place and play some vid-jya games?"

"Some what?"

"Some video games."

"Oh. Maybe. Yeah. Sure." He doesn't look sure.

"Come on," climbing off the barstool. "London's already there. She's got to pick your brain about something anyway." _Get it?!_

"Wait—Zack," grabbing my chin with one sticky paw. "Is that _blood_ on your face?!"

"What—this? Blood? Noooo…"

Then I just knife him in the throat.


End file.
